


Because I Know

by traceylane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traceylane/pseuds/traceylane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek assumes things about Stiles--though he would refer to them as "observations"-- and goes along with them, to a point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because I Know

After a while, Stiles just gets quiet.

Derek wonders if he’s simply irritated past the point of whining. A lot of the time Stiles makes it obvious that he _is_ irritated, often by putting his face in his hands when someone uses one of the doors of his Jeep as a projectile, or muttering to himself when he has to cram for American History in the most well-lit of the dark corners in Derek’s loft because yes, he has to be there, or rolling his eyes when Derek shows up in his kitchen, most definitely uninvited.

\---

Stiles catches him drinking their coffee from the big green mug he had given his father when he was fourteen—which, to be fair,  was the only one that didn’t fit in Derek’s hand like a teacup—and Derek is leering , as if _he_ was the one standing groggy and in his boxers long before he should be up, really.

 “What are you doing here?”

He puts emphasis on the _doing_ , because the fact that it’s _Derek_ and the fact that it’s _here_ isn’t too much of a shock.

“Where’s Scott?” He puts his—Stiles’—mug down on the counter, and it makes a hard sound like it disapproves of the situation, too.

Stiles groans.

“First of all, you have to stop agreeing to meet here. I get that it’s some pack bond thing, and that you’ve all understandably formed an inexplicable and dangerously overwhelming attachment to me—”

“Yours is the closest house.”

“—But you can’t come barging in whenever you want, you could’ve woken up my dad—”

“And I didn’t.”

“—and regardless of what you told Scott I doubt he’s even getting out of bed before eight, as in three hours from now and _is that my shirt_?”

Derek looks down and pulls hard on the fabric, like he can’t see it from where he is—“Probably, yeah,”—and Stiles sighs because it’s most likely stretched beyond anything that could ever properly fit on him and even if Derek ever gave it back—which did not seem likely, since for some reason he looks fond of it, enough to wear it more than once—it would probably smell like blood and Derek, who actually already smells like blood, albeit mixed with testosterone and… angst. And now he could add his dad’s coffee—organic, expensive, and also handpicked by Stiles—to the mix.

Though he imagined if he asked for it, Derek would take it off without a word of complaint, which was the last thing Stiles wanted, right?

Stiles wished there was some way for his brain to blink itself awake, because it was making him think that asking for his shirt wasn’t too bad of an idea. It was only fair, after all Stiles didn’t have all of his clothes on, either. That was how the universe worked, you couldn’t just have two people be unequally dressed while—

“—iles, are you listening to me?”

“Excuse me?” And miraculously, Stiles’ brain woke up.

“I said we should go get Scott.”

“Oh… We?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. _Of course,_ “We.”

There’s a pause, then what doesn’t surprise Derek is that Stiles opens his mouth again. What does is the fact that he just says _a_ word, “Fine,” and, shocker, he’s not a four-year-old, though he still manages to slip in _that_ tone with as much early-morning disdain for all of humanity as he could fit into a single syllable.  Stiles goes upstairs to put on some damn pants and doesn’t even bring up the fact that he hasn’t had breakfast yet or mention scientific studies on the benefits of morning eating. Nor does he tell Derek that this is the thirty-ninth surprise home invasion since they’ve known each other and that it’s getting a little old and that he should probably get Derek a bell.

Stiles does pout, though. No, tired Stiles isn’t cute, but he is a little funny, so Derek allows himself a smirk when he’s sure Stiles has gone all the way up the stairs.

So Stiles is reluctant but Derek overlooks it because they still leave together.

\---

No—he’s just scared. He still jumps when Derek appears out of nowhere—though he’s getting better about it, both of them are—in his bedroom, outside of his window, in the woods at two in the morning, a place that Stiles has found himself trudging through more and more often as of late. Stiles laughs at the sideburns and has only just recently stopped making wolf puns at any given opportunity, but he still cringes at the claws and the fangs and when Derek growls like he’s about to kill something, which is the case most of the time. Stiles isn’t afraid of werewolves though, he’s over that particular wall, but there were terrors in Beacon Hills that didn’t actually belong there, and Stiles is smart enough to know that screaming would only make them mad.

\---

It’s cold and dark and again, Stiles is tired.

He has a test tomorrow—today, actually—and because he’s Stiles and this is his life, a pop quiz or two, most likely. He checks his phone for the time, and the glow is only slightly comforting. He makes an aggravated noise, though nobody is around to care, because it is currently twelve minutes past three in the morning and something tells him that he’s getting home after the sun comes up just in time to turn off his alarm before his dad figures out he’s been out.

His phone has just gone black before lighting up again, and he answers it, “Scott, I don’t see anything that even remotely resembles a giant nest, and—”

The familiar sound of twigs snapping, and oh, God, Stiles won’t let himself ask what that was, because he knows what it was.

He can hear Scott’s Concerned Voice still coming from the speaker while he moves behind a tree, shutting off his flashlight before immediately regretting it. “Stop it, it’s here!”

“What? No, Derek said it only comes out in the day.”

“I know what Derek said, and he was obviously fucking wrong and I’m about to get my organs torn out of my body and ingested!” Stiles doesn’t know how much quieter he can whisper scream, so he stops trying and instead focuses on whether or not it’s gone away.

“Stiles? Stiles, where are you? We’ll come meet you.”

 _I’m somewhere in the woods, Scott, and I can barely see my hands in front of me, much less where the fuck I am, thanks for asking._ “I guess I’m a little ways west from where I left you guys, don’t worry, take your time, maybe it’ll offer you leftovers by the time you get here.”

“Stiles, calm down.”

That wasn’t Scott. “Derek? Good to hear from you, man. By the way, did you know this thing isn’t as much of an early bird as you had first thought? Who’da thunk.”

“Great, Stiles, whatever distracts you from peril.”

“I’m in peril because of you, you frea—”

The twig snapping has combined with leaf rustling, and he swears he can hear its teeth clacking together when Derek speaks up again, “What’s wrong, is it back?”

Stiles barely breathes out a “Yes,” when he can hear it dragging its limbs through the dirt, and this is where the music would swell and the monster would reach around and wrap its claws around Stiles’ neck, but all he can do is shut his eyes and beg the universe mercy.

And he listens to Derek breathing on the other end of the line, because neither of them can hang up now, and he wonders what would happen if he heard Stiles die, right here, through his goddamn cellphone. He can tell Derek is wondering, too, because his breaths are shaky. It’s oddly comforting, though it could just be Stiles’ hand, which he can’t seem to steady no matter how hard he holds onto his wrist.

Then Derek says his name and it sends a shiver through his body, because it’s so quiet and small and Stiles shouldn’t be thinking about this now, really, _really_ he shouldn’t, but he imagines that’s what it would sound like if Derek had him pushed up against a wall, had Stiles’ legs wrapped around his waist.

But in this context Derek wants to know if he’s still about to be killed, and unfortunately Stiles can’t answer because he can sense it a few yards away, so Derek doesn’t say anything else.

When he’s sure it’s gone, Stiles breathes again, says “Sorry, I’m okay.”

However, Derek knows this already, because he shows up less than ten seconds later and gives Stiles a small heart attack.

“You’re okay? Really?”

Stiles wants to say yes, of course, but it took him three tries to slip his phone into his back pocket.

But it’s just the adrenaline, this obviously happens every time he almost has his liver ripped out, he can just shake it off. He insists this to Derek, covers his bases even though he wasn’t sure Derek was going to say anything about it in the first place.

“We can come up with a new plan later. Let’s just go home for now.”

Stiles nods, doesn’t roll his eyes at _new plan_ , doesn’t even mention the fact that this is Derek’s fault.

And it is Derek’s fault, at least partly, so he walks Stiles back to his car and they don’t talk.

But the backs of their hands touch four times and Derek pulls open the driver’s side door before saying good night.

\---

But what if there’s something _really_ wrong with Stiles? He could be hurt and not be telling anyone because that’s the kind of fool that Stiles is and for all Derek’s tendencies towards the shadowy and mysterious he hates it when people keep things from him. And the thing about Stiles is that he never lets you know what you want to know. If given the option Stiles would probably ramble on about the mechanics of navy vessels used during the Cold War before talking seriously about himself. So Derek, who hated to wait for anything, much less answers, decides to confront Stiles directly about how he hasn’t been talking lately about things like twentieth century battleships.

\---

 “What’s wrong with you?”

Stiles closes the cupboard he’s peering into and does that thing with his head, where he looks around like he’s been caught breaking into a car before he focuses on Derek, who has—as Derek does—moved from the table to about a foot away and into Stiles’ personal space.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you sick?”

“Am I— What?”

“What. Is. Wrong with you?”

And Stiles starts—but of course there’s  a bit of sarcasm there, like he’s shooting the question back, _Well, what’s wrong with you, Derek Hale?_

“Nothing…? I’m fine.” He puts his arms up and spreads his legs like Derek’s going to frisk him. “See? No gaping wounds, no blood where it shouldn’t be, no suspicious powders or fluids, and,” he glances at his feet, “well, I’m still a virgin but I don’t—”

“That’s not what I meant,” and it’s weird because it’s seems so different from usual that Stiles can’t tell if Derek sounds exasperated because he thinks Stiles is ridiculous or because he’s actually making the effort to care.

“You’re not— you’re not talking as much.” As in he hasn’t spoken a word since he had—roughly, though not in a way that said “leave”—told Derek to make himself at home. Although, his complaints have been more limited, his explanations a little more to the point, and even his tangents slightly more relevant and Derek desperately wishes he could enjoy it but when he says it out loud he grimaces because it’s _bizarre_.

“Oh.”

Oh, there’s nothing to talk about with you. Oh, you’ll just bite my head off, literally.

Oh, but we’re not even friends.

Derek almost turns around and drops it, _Thank you, Stiles, for proving my point with a word that isn’t even a word._

Stiles speaks up again just in time, though, “I guess… it’s you?”   _Oh, God,_ there are alarms going off in Derek’s head but he doesn’t completely know how to interpret that, even more so when Stiles’ voice goes up, like he doesn’t get it, either.

So Stiles clarifies, “I mean, you don’t talk a lot, either, so it’s not weird or anything, right?”

 _Wrong_ , Derek thinks, and Stiles can apparently see that on his face, so he continues, “Not all silences have to be tense and, I don’t know, brooding, like yours,” Stiles laughs, and Derek’s eyes narrow just a little. “It—it’s not a big deal. If you want to be quiet, I can be quiet, too.”

“What, to piss me off?”

Stiles puts his hands out in front of him _, really_? “No! Because you don’t seem like the conversationalist type and, I don’t know, I thought it’d make you feel better if I didn’t argue as much and shit like that. I just thought you’d appreciate it!”

A pause that, defying all odds, is more awkward than the conversation it’s interrupting.

“…You thought I would appreciate it.”

Stiles sighs, because that wasn’t a question so Derek is listening somewhat. “The more I think about it the more it would make sense for you to be an alien instead of a werewolf. Yes, Derek, I did. I thought I was being considerate, and since—since friends do that kind of thing, I guessed we could do that, too, whatever _we_ are.”

Something about the way that was phrased implies something either very good or very bad for Derek, though he isn't sure which one is which because he really should be feeling indifferent about either option.

Stiles thinks he’s said too much, which is the opposite of what he was going for, but fuck it, Derek’s being a jerk today. “I get that you kind of hate me, but we’ve kind of been together for a while—” _Shit, what?_ “—I mean with the whole wolf thing, so unlike you I’ve actually bothered to pay attention to what could possibly make you stop hating me and maybe even like me—” _You’re driving off a cliff, Stilinski,_ “—which seems like an impossibility now because you’re an oblivious dick!”

Now Stiles is panting and it was all horridly unexpected. Derek is as fazed as he could allow himself to be, which is hardly, but it’s still jarring.

“I don’t—I don’t _hate_ you, you fucking _idiot_.” And it was probably a summary of what Derek felt for Stiles in one sentence.

Stiles looks up, like he had just realized he hadn’t been ranting to the mirror in his bathroom.

“ _I_ don’t pay attention? _I’m_ the one who thought you were sick, _I’m_ the one who’s been worrying my ass off about you because all of a sudden you’ve decided to be cooperative and you’re calling me oblivious. Do you know how messed up that is? Very. It’s very messed up, because I know you, Stiles, I _have_ known you, which is why this stupid change in your already unpredictable behavioral pattern has been driving me crazy for weeks, you fucking _idiot_!”

He calls Stiles the same name because it was natural; there wasn’t anything else he felt like calling him. But when he finishes he realizes how very close they are standing; it’s come to the point where Stiles has arched a bit over the counter so their foreheads wouldn’t touch, because that would be weird, wouldn’t it?

“Okay… Okay, sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Derek says finally, because after insulting Stiles at least twice with those last few sentences he feels there’s an obligation to mention it again.

“… I know.”

“Good.”

“Because you worry about me.”

“…Yes.”

“For weeks at a time.”

Derek sees where this is going, so he draws back, but the tension doesn’t go away, it just turns into a different kind of tension, because Stiles moves to keep their faces inches apart.

“Because you _know_ me.”

“I get it, you can stop now.”

“Because I drive you _crazy_.”

“That’s _enough_ —”

And Stiles actually grabs his face and kisses his nose, like this is all a big joke, since it is until his hands go soft and he kisses Derek’s mouth and Stiles decides that this most certainly is a joke.

Because Derek kisses him back, bites his lower lip, like he’s egging him on, _Don’t you ever fuck with me_ , and Stiles makes a little shocked, choking noise, but then goes with it, tracing the inside of Derek’s lip with his tongue, _Don’t think I won’t_.

But Derek moves his hand up behind Stiles neck, pushes the other underneath Stiles’ shirt and damn, he’s either well practiced in this sort of thing or he’s thought about this before. Stiles hopes, desperately, desperately hopes, that it’s both, or at least the latter.

Stiles almost goes limp when Derek pushes a leg in between his, rolls his hips against him. Honestly he hadn’t known what he had expected, kissing Derek first, but now it’s getting out of hand and his train of thought has almost completely derailed. Derek can tell, with his mouth on Stiles’ neck where he can feel and hear the blood rushing to Stiles’ head so fast it was probably dizzying.

“What’s wrong?” Like there was always something wrong with Stiles getting in the way.

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Stiles breathes, his hand shaking a little when he pushes it through Derek’s hair, “that I’m not dead right now.”

And Derek sighs as he moves up Stiles’ jaw. “I guess you don’t know me as well as you thought.”

He lets out a short laugh at his own joke, and Stiles rolls his eyes, “Shut up, Derek,” before kissing him again.

\---

Stiles is quieter but Derek doesn’t mind.

So occasionally he accepts Stiles’ clothing when his own are torn up and scorched; they both know he should probably wear a shirt some of the time, it attracts less attention. Occasionally they fight monsters together because Stiles can figure out how to kill them and Derek has the ability to actually do it. And occasionally they drink coffee at Stiles’ house, because Stiles doesn’t hate it when he’s there, and Derek doesn’t hate Stiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a small "moments" thing that was supposed to be less than 1000 words and have no dialogue, but I liked the way it turned out. Comments are appreciated, and I apologize for any mistakes you may have found (let me know! :D ). Anyway, thank you, kind internet user, for reading. Cheers!


End file.
